


Turn About is Fair Play

by freakylemurcat



Series: Collar and Cuffs [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Chains, Cock Rings, Cock Worship, Comeplay, Creampie, Gags, Grinding, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Bottom, Rope Bondage, Spike Modifications (Transformers), Topping from the Bottom, Valve Dom (Transformers), Valve Oral (Transformers), Valve Play (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Now, Prowl was not adverse to being spiked by any means. He merely preferred being the spiker. Jazz was the opposite, so it worked well, but sometimes a mech had cravings. Sometimes there was an itch that just needed to be scratched.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Series: Collar and Cuffs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578811
Comments: 4
Kudos: 85





	Turn About is Fair Play

The tableau was one of his best, Prowl decided. There wasn’t even a cogwheel out of place

He had chosen the ropes to be the exact shade of the stripe down Jazz’ chest; picked chains gleaming with iridescent oil on the steel plating. Jazz had knelt obediently for Prowl to loop the rope in intricate knots over his shoulders and around the curves of his chest, forming a web over his flanks and belly. He had even offered each limb without hesitation, so Prowl could chain him to the four corners of the berth, and lolled his head back for Prowl to clip a flat metal disc to the cables of his throat. A mutebox, it distorted and discharged the electrics of a vocaliser, and while Prowl liked Jazz noisy and demonstrative he was here as a toy tonight, not a pet. 

"Speak," he commanded, and nodded as Jazz opened his mouth and no sound came out but a barely perceptible whine and a flicker of LEDs on the mutebox. "Good mech." 

They had comms anyway, and Prowl preferred that as their safety mechanism, because it was a set message and there was little way a wandering processor could trigger it unintentionally. He pinged them, just to test, and Jazz answered promptly. 

If they had been playing master and pet, Prowl would have had very little to chide and punish Jazz for by now - normally he was cheekier, sassier, never quite shedding his chaotic nature - but luckily that wasn't the case right now. Toys weren't there to be punished but used. Instead he turned away and gathered his other things - a sachet of oil and a spike inhibitor. Just in case he kept his favourite crop within reach anyway.

He knelt between Jazz' spread thighs, taking the opportunity to run his hands up the frame laid out like a meal in front of him, tugging and testing his ropes as he did. Jazz vented unsteadily, hot air wheezing from the plating held closed by the bonds, and the mutebox flickered momentarily. 

"Show me what you have for me," said Prowl, tapping two fingers against his toy's codpiece. "Open up." 

There was a brief hesitation, as Jazz expression turned quizzical, and then the soft whir of plates retracting. But not the ones under Prowl's digits. 

"Did I ask for your valve?" said Prowl, tone dangerously level. It was gratifying to see Jazz looked abashed, shaking his head rapidly. "No. Open up."

His codpiece slid back, displaying the supple protoform and the bulge of his spike sheath. He was warm and soft under Prowl's palm, throbs of fuel palpable as he was petted. Jazz so rarely brought his spike out to play, so his protoform was all the more silky smooth for it and when Prowl gently stroked his sheath his spike instantly began to emerge. 

Now, Prowl was not adverse to being spiked by any means. He merely preferred being the spiker. Jazz was the opposite, so it worked well, but sometimes a mech had cravings. Sometimes there was an itch that just needed to be scratched. 

Using Jazz’ lovely spike for the purpose was just a benefit. Sometime in his misbegotten youth he'd had the thing modded, not just with the pretty blue columns of biolights down the sides, but also with an extra series of ridges down the length. It was a handsome monochrome pattern of shiny platelets, pulling tight to the plumping protoform underneath as Prowl stroked him almost absently. 

The chains clinked as the mech wriggled under the touch, as Prowl reached out and cinched them even tighter, so Jazz was really trapped and fully at his mercy. His spike was already jutting up obscenely, curving back over to drip spots of silvery fluids onto the overlapping plates of his belly. He still hadn't closed his valve covers, and Prowl could see the dewy wetness forming over his mesh.

Prowl swept a forefinger between the plump protoform folds, collecting the beading moisture and almost absently licked the digit clean again. Lubricant tasted sweet and oily, but nowhere near as delicious as the strangled note Jazz’ engine developed at the sight. In Prowl’s other hand, his spike throbbed. 

Between the pair of them, Jazz did tend to be the more orally fixated one, but today it was Prowl’s mouth which was watering. He bowed his head and licked a broad stripe over the tip of Jazz’ spike - the fluid beading at the tip was mineral rich and salty, a savoury treat. 

Appetite whetted, he sucked greedily on Jazz’ spike, lapping up the sharp tang of transfluids as they leaked to the tip. The ridges down the underside were ideal to play his glossa over, the entire thing just the right length to swallow down. All the while, Jazz lay trapped in his chains, engine vibrating at high revs and neck tilted at a desperate angle to watch what he could of Prowl between his legs. Prowl savoured every moment of it - he rarely did this, although in the moment he could not recall why he ever refrained - until the tang of salt on his chemoreceptors thickened and he pulled away with a pointedly obscene slurp. 

He squeezed his grip sharply on the base of the spike, just tight enough to block the channels and delay any climax. Jazz went from tense to a veritable puddle of mech, slumped in the berthsheets and wheezing from every closed vent. 

Prowl licked his lips - purposefully provocative, because making Jazz steam was far too much fun - and gathered the spike inhibitor from his supplies. 

“Remember, you asked for this,” he said, dangling the loop from his digits. “What was it you said? That I was too hot, how could you be expected not to overload in a klik?” On that occasion, Jazz had had to kneel at Prowl’s pedes for joors, watching his own transfluids drip off white paint and not allowed to touch at all. “Wasn’t that right?”

Jazz smiled, sheepishly, and nodded. The chains chimed as he tried to lever his hips up. 

“Consider it a kindness, then,” said Prowl, and clicked the spike inhibitor into place, cinched tightly where his grip had squeezed moments before. This time when he stroked and petted Jazz’ spike, rubbing his digits firmly over the pliable surface of the ribbing, he could drive his toy into highest gear and keep him there with no risk of any unexpected mess. Jazz whined and thrashed his helm, but could do little else to escape the torture. Prowl only stopped when one whimper was loud enough to crackle through the mutebox as a hiss of static. 

HIs toy would be less useful with burnt out circuits. 

The next thing he picked up was the sachet of oil. He was just as full of lust as if he had Jazz knelt on all fours, aft in the air, but his own valve was always slow and sparse to lubricate. A little helping oil made the experience all the easier. And it meant he could torment his toy a little more, slicking up his digits and withdrawing his array plating to bare his mesh to the cool air, making sure every little slick sound was audible but just remaining out of Jazz’ sightlines. He even sighed and hitched his vents a little stroking his own anterior node, more out of theatre than any real inclination to make noise. 

Jazz trembled, the mutebox LEDs lighting up as he tried to plead for Prowl to come closer or touch him. Having this level of control over his toy just made Prowl run hotter, coaxed him to finally slip a digit into the clutch of his own valve with a genuine moan. Soon he was more than wet enough, the remainder of the oil spread over Jazz’ spike with a few efficient pumps. 

Prowl straddled up over Jazz’ hips, leaning his weight forward on the curve of Jazz’ chest to leave oily servoprints on glossy paintwork. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he said, and smirked at the tremor that racked the frame beneath him. 

As he slid back Jazz’ spike was trapped beneath his valve lips and the rope-patterned belly beneath; the perfect position to ride over those lovely ridges, firm friction on Prowl’s anterior node. Another moan escaped at the first slide and he shimmied back and slid forward again just right. When he circled his hips it was like little shocks of pleasure biting at his node, sending bolts right up his spinal struts, and soon - too soon - he was on the verge.

Unlike some other mechs with boundless energy, Prowl knew he had limits on his overloads. A couple of spike overloads in a short time was enough to wipe him out; one valve overload would hit like a freight train. He forced himself to still, and had just enough self-control left over to straighten up and lord it over the mech practically vibrating beneath him. 

Jazz looked a little worse for wear. There were oily handprints on his headlights, steam rising from his plating in thin wisps, and droplets of moisture condensing on his limbs, leaving streaks on his paint. His visor was glowing a vibrant electric blue, and when Prowl leaned down, he could see the optics below - faint below the glass, but pale and as wide open as possible. He was mouthing words, desperate sweet words, but the mutebox robbed him of every single sound except the occasional hiss when his vocaliser was too strong. 

“Pretty toy,” Prowl said, sliding a servo over the oily print of his hand, smearing the oil over chrome. "You make me greedy." 

This time he reached back and aligned that lovely tempting spike up with his valve lips; when he slid back this time, the tip pierced right into him, hot and hard. Chains clattered as Jazz jerked in place. 

Through the fog of his own pleasure - every ridge bumped and caught the outer ring of sensors as he slid further down - Prowl could imagine how it must have felt. Warm, wet mesh clutching and conforming to his spike, caliper flickering and tightening down with little jolts. He squeezed purposefully, just to watch his toy throw his helm back in despair. 

He rode Jazz like a champion zap-pony, rolling his hips and bouncing his aft. As tightly bound down as he was, Jazz was unable to help. The ropes strained around his torso as his plating tried to flare to release the steam built up underneath, and the chains on his limbs rattled as his limbs shook. He looked wild and frustrated and utterly at Prowl’s mercy.

Perfect.

Prowl ran his servos down his own belly, smirking as Jazz’ helm tilted to monitor the movement, desperate anticipation visible as Prowl’s hand settled on his thighs.

“You want it?” teased Prowl, enjoying the last few moments of tension as they stretched out. Jazz nodded frantically, the mutebox glowing bright red as he tried to speak. “What was that? I can’t hear you.”

Jazz’ next attempt was so strong his vocaliser managed to issue a static plea before the mutebox buzzed again.

“Good,” said Prowl, pleased. “Fine then, you can have a treat.”

The spike inhibitor clicked open with a twist of his forefinger and thumb digit and he set a wicked, fast pace, bouncing down so hard his aft stings with the impact on Jazz’ thighs. Jazz tossed his helm back and his vocaliser managed a reedy warble as Prowl rode him closer to the edge. Luckily he didn't have to for long – Jazz was too tightly wound, even inch of him straining for pleasure

With a groan that filtered through the mutebox as a hitched squeal, Jazz overloaded and Prowl settled down as far as he could to enjoy the sensation. There was something so filthy and delicious about the sensation of another mecha pumping the thick rich fluid of their overload into his well-used valve. It made him feel more sensitive and far slicker, debased and messy and happy with it.

All too soon though he had to shift up, hurriedly snapping the inhibitor ring back around the base of Jazz’ spike, trapping the pressure. The mech made a low despairing noise. 

“You,” said Prowl, “Still have a job to do.”

As enjoyable as torturing his toy was, Prowl had a goal in mind. He circled his hips, finding every node with every available ridge, until he was in exactly the right position. When he began to fuck himself on Jazz’ spike, heaving himself up and settling back down with increasing force, the pleasure made him moan out loud. Every bounce down drove the tip directly into a ceiling node - rarely hit by any of the lesser toys Prowl kept tucked away for personal use - and the ridges down the underside raked along the scattered sensors at the back of his valve. 

There was a reason Jazz was his favourite toy. 

If he turned about, his sensor plexus would bear the brunt of those ridge mods, but then he wouldn’t have the delight of watching Jazz’ expression, bereft and tormented and utterly delirious with pleasure. Even behind his visor his optics were now bright enough to be visible from Prowl’s lofty position, powered by his skyrocketing charge. Half of his pleasure was from watching his pretty toy whimper and try to writhe under him. He had teased himself too long already, and the charge was building fast. He fragged himself stupid, bracing his palms on Jazz’ rope-bound belly to get a little more force into his thrusts, until he could feel the first shaky spasms of his calippers clenching down. 

He fragged himself roughly through every shock and shake of his overload, bowing his head to savour the jerk and snap of charge cracking through his nodes. With the slickness of transfluid soaking his sensors, the climax felt all the more intense; conductive charge searing from his nodes up his neural pathways in great throbs of voltage. So intense was the overload, he could feel his processors roil under the force of it. 

When the voltage ebbed back down, although with tiny jolts as a calliper clenched again, Prowl’s view of the external world cleared. He was still perched on Jazz’ lap, just about upright, and every inch of his frame felt simultaneously seared through in the best possible way. Slowly he tilted off his perch, and smiled to himself as the mutebox failed to fully mute Jazz’ bereft wail. 

He had just enough energy left to torment his toy one last time. He traced the interweaved lines of blue rope down Jazz’ tight belly, jumping from knot to knot hovering his digits down the loops around the mech’s hip joints in a purposefully slow manner. Finally, his servo crept over Jazz’ spike, one finger at a time pressing the tender protoform. 

The nanoklik he opened the spike inhibitor again, Jazz choked and spilled silvery fluids over his own belly and Prowl’s digits. His overload seemed to go on a long time, and Prowl petted his spike tenderly throughout, soothing the last drops out of him. 

“Well done,” said Prowl, leaning up over Jazz’ sizzling frame to kiss the corner of his visor briefly. He was pleased to see Jazz smile in return.

“Such a lovely mouth,” crooned Prowl, running a delicate digit over Jazz’ quivering lips, lining them with a silvery gloss of his own fluids. “You would sing for me if you could, wouldn’t you?”

The mutebox emitted a static sigh and Jazz’ mouth pulled into a sweet pout. He never liked being deprived of his voice, which just made Prowl want to do it more. 

“Now now,” said Prowl, “Shall I give you something better to do with your pretty mouth?”

Jazz nodded frantically, and Prowl smiled at the keenness. It didn’t dim when he straddled his toy’s handsome face, so his valve was level with that broad mouth. 

“Clean me up,” Prowl commanded. He could feel the slow ooze of transfluid and oil starting to drip down, and while being messy in the moment was acceptable, afterwards he would prefer to be tidy. Luckily Jazz had no such compunctions and a very nimble tongue. He lapped his own transfluids from Prowl’s valve almost hungrily, wetting his glossa on the oil and lubricant until it spilled onto his cheeks. This close Prowl could almost feel the tingle of static as the mutebox clicked on and off to groans and sighs. 

It was almost enough to stimulate another climax, a delicate shiver through his systems, and once he had settled Prowl slipped off his mouth. Jazz’s visor lit up brighter as he opened the optics beneath to look around foggily, unsure of where Prowl was until he reached out to wipe his face plates dry. 

The chains all had a quick release, and Prowl released these after he plucked at two rope knots. The bindings loosened without completely ruining the aesthetic, letting vents pop open and disperse hot clouds of steam. Jazz’ servos immediately reached for him, clutching and keen, and Prowl pulled him close, knowing his pet’s need for affection in the aftermath. He knew he should get up; fetch the prepared cloths to wipe their paintwork clean before the various fluids started to set in place, grab a cube of energon for both of them and perhaps a coolant for Jazz, who would be steaming copiously for a time yet. But lying in a heap was far more pleasant, and none of his hydraulics seemed to have enough pressure to manage standing. 

So instead he settled in place, humming tunelessly, and rather tonelessly, stroking gentle hands over stubby horns until Jazz was lulled into a light sleep and didn’t protest at the release of the ropes around his torso. The mutebox pinged off into Prowl’s hand and Jazz’ vocaliser crackled through a soft reset, finally matching Prowl’s humming in a far more tuneful manner.

Messy and overheated, but still perfect. 


End file.
